Beginnings by the Handful
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: “The most eloquent silence is that of two mouths meeting in a kiss.” Unknown.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is a WIP. You may not understand the formatting or the flow. Give it a few chapters, I promise, it will all become clear._

_Thank you to Mel, the dragon mistress for the not-so-much-beta.

* * *

_This is how her day begins.

Her day is night and instead of being awoken by a garish singer crooning out sickly-sentimental lyrics (something nice and paced to keep her from starting too fast), it is the screeching beep of a generic alarm that rouses her. Up and out, Sara always tosses back the sheets and plants two feet firmly on the carpet.

Unless it's Sunday; then she takes the time to stretch before moving about to start her day-night.

It is a Tuesday, so it's straight to the living room floor with the cushy, green yoga mat. There is stretch after stretch before she presses her body into a full lotus and feels the lethargy drain from her body. It's a routine, a sort of subtle stability that keeps her on track.

She doesn't cling to it, doesn't live for it. She simply likes it, enjoys that for once her life isn't in upheaval, that her emotions aren't in turmoil.

The coffee is percolating in the kitchen and her body morphs from position to position as the machine gurgles away happily. The crack of her spine readjusting is strangely pleasant in the dim quiet and for a moment before getting up, she lays flat on her black, closes her eyes and sighs.

Another day, another Sara. She would find another reason to smile and mean it.

The night swirls around her, invades her nostrils and settles at the base of her spine.

A cup of coffee is poured; the first one is always consumed black with just a hint of sugar. Placing it on the end table, she rolls up her mat and stores is back in the bedroom, trailing into the bathroom almost as an afterthought, the aroma of her coffee in tow.

The mug is placed on the edge of the hard, marble sink, within easy proximity of the shower.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but it's the way she likes it and she sticks her head under the spray almost immediately as though to rinse the nightmares out of her hair, out of her head. The soap is next, a delicate concoction squirted onto a rose loofah and spread over her body. The sweat is gone, along with the dead skin.

She regenerates.

Sara takes her time, sips her coffee in between shampooing and conditioning and sings to her shower radio. It's one of the only places she sings anymore and derives pleasure from following Debbie Harry's notes absolutely, swiveling her hips to her own words as she slides around in soap.

Out of the shower Sara wraps herself in a large towel; it's very fluffy and nearly swallows her whole being; that's the way she likes it. Sometimes, she places it over the heat vent in the bathroom and cranks it to seventy so that when it slides over her body, the terrycloth hugs her.

It's a nice feeling; she likes it.

Like every Tuesday, WednesdayThursdayFriday she saunters into her bedroom and nestles into the towel for another moment before allowing it to slide to the floor, her naked body on display for no one but herself. Sara chooses her clothes carefully, finding articles that compliment her frame, bring out her eyes. She enjoys matching her jackets with her outfit; it's a feminine routine that allows her to indulge, but not too much.

She chooses a small pair of panties, something she got from one of those 'free panty with purchase' catalogs, so she can forgive the fact that they would have cost somewhere in the twenties had she bought them separate. They slide into place with a whisper of satin; she wonders how they would sound coming off.

A pink top slides on top of a pair of dark wash jeans. She dries her hair, curling it around her face like she usually does and fastens a slinky little pendant around her neck. Looking plain but rosy and pert, she smears on a bit of chapstick and grabs her modest purse, heading for the door.

A dark denim jacket completes her look.

At the threshold, she pauses and turns back, takes stock of her apartment, making sure that everything she turned on has been successfully switched off. Basking in the monotony of a routine, she blinks, smiles and pulls the strap of her bag firmly up onto her shoulder.

Twisting the knob, she opens the door and takes a last look at her living room before spinning to exit.

She thumps against something hard and pulls back in immediate defense. Grissom is standing hopefully before her; his hands had been in his pockets but when she thumped into him his hands came up to her biceps.

Technically in his embrace, she is confused but can't manage to articulate her emotions.

He blinks.

She blinks, frowns.

"Sara," he sighs and removes a hand from her arm, passes it over her cheek. "Sara," strong fingers and a sturdy palm cradle her chin, cheekbone. She is very, very much in his embrace now and loving it more than she thought she knew how to do.

As she begins to put the pieces of the memory down in indelible ink she shakes her routine, throws monotony to the wind and brings their lips together. And they are kissing very languidly, her purse thumping to the floor in a sort of obtuse submission.

Sara can't believe that it's happening, so she doesn't bother trying to rationalize it.

Grissom kisses Sara on her front stoop, and that is all.


	2. Chapter 2

_Nods to Anni...

* * *

_ "This is quite possibly... the most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn," Nick pulled at his bowtie in frustration until Catherine batted his hands away. Rolling his eyes, he sank back into his seat, still uncomfortable.

"Stop it," she hissed, sliding a finger beneath a curl to place it behind her ear. "You look fantastic and charming, deal with it."

Sinking back into her own chair, she glanced across the table at Sara, who smiled a bit and lifted her wine glass to her lips. A languid sip and Catherine smiled back, bringing her own glass up to taste. Both women felt relaxed while, for some reason, the men were the ones complaining about the evening.

Out on the dance floor in the muted light, couples and non-couples moved to the music. Some were friends simply enjoying themselves, others using the evening for political gain; some arrived at the function together and were dancing together, these were the people that would leave together.

No one on the nightshift had arrived 'plus-one' and they were all grateful for it; it made making fun of the others much simpler. There was easy conversation floating around the table, everyone contributing, more than a few laughing. True, it was a function for the city and they were all put out for having to attend but they had found themselves having a fairly good time.

Which was odd to begin with.

Greg was ragged upon for a bit about his hair, still spiky and out of control. Taking offense, he'd pushed his chair back and made to leave, to which Warrick started and grabbed his arm, sitting him immediately back down. There was an odd sense of camaraderie amongst the group, the table of eight rounded out by a slightly despondent Brass and Ecklie.

Initially, the night shift employees had been upset, uncomfortable, quiet and reclusive when their superior had tossed his seating card at Catherine and slumped down, but after a few drinks... well... the words had come much more easily.

Merlot, Cabernet, some Chardonnay thrown in and a beer or two and everyone was everyone else's friend.

Not really but... sort of.

There were jokes, risqué ones that Greg told.

Nick laughed first, which caused Sara to giggle and Warrick to slap her knee and guffaw loudly. Politics featured largely in their discussion and after a well-timed barb about Bush, Ecklie laughed and moved off to speak with the mayor.

The conversation tapered and people began filtering from the table, one at a time.

Catherine coyly-so coyly she was nearly dripping with deliberate sex-asked Warrick to dance with her and he took her hand without a word, the two abandoning the table without a backwards glance. Grissom watched them for a time; watched her whisper to him, watched him laugh and respond.

Dancing and then… dancing.

Maybe they were friends too close, perhaps they were something more. He made no real move to distinguish because the subdued, secret smiles on their faces had him intrigued.

Greg eventually made his way off, a glass of champagne (where had that entered? Had he truly missed the champagne?) in hand. Nick sought out the distant form of Wendy and Brass grumbled something about Ecklie and made his way towards the ass-kisser and the mayor.

Alone at the table, they pretended not to realize the other.

It didn't work.

Sara was one and a half in; Grissom was on his second glass of red and felt pleasantly warm. He felt as though he should look at her-really look-and so he did.

She was adorned in a pink thing, long and silky, with strings crisscrossing at her back. Her shoulders held the thin straps that secured the dress to her body, creating a slight crease where it lay. Beneath the twinkle lights and the small candles from the table, her skin resembled warm caramel, her freckles peeking out of the concoction as chocolate.

Delicious; she looked absolutely ravishing.

And he, toying with the edges of the pristine tablecloth, felt himself shiver awake.

Sara was long lines and deliberate actions, curves held by dainty skin, beauty veiled by brilliance and brains. Slim, slim oh so slim-delicate fingers wrapped around her glass again but didn't bring it to her mouth to drink. Pulling it back and forth across the tightly woven cotton, she continued a shaky mesmerism she had begun the minute she raised her hand and asked a question all those years ago.

Her eyes-fixed like a sleepwalker's might be were fixed on him. The simple fact that she wasn't turning away, blushing, shying from his own heavy stare, spoke volumes. "Surprised you didn't feign illness," she said, quirking a brow instead of her lips, her glass continued to be pulled slowly back and forth across the tablecloth.

Grissom's lips curved upward as he responded, "I don't think I have any fight left in me when it comes to these things. If I come to this one, I can skip out on the next one." Sara nodded, pursing her lips in acknowledgement as her fingers finally stilled. "It's a simple progression I'm only picking up on now, sadly."

A nod and she leaned back in her seat, elbows sliding along the smooth mahogany armrests. "Well, these things aren't so, _so_ bad, really." Gesturing at the table with a lazy hand, she continued on, her voice taking on a quieter tone. "Good food, _better_ wine, and you don't really have to speak with anyone if you don't want to, you just... show up."

Slightly more intrigued with her posture and voice than anything else, Grissom sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I suppose; how many of these have you attended?"

"Three? Four? Just whenever Brass needs a date and Catherine isn't available really," Sara sighed and went to toy with her napkin before correcting herself. "Not to say that he can't find someone outside of... the lab... just that I'm sure it's better... politically."

Grissom squirmed a tad uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at his fingernails before looking back across the table.

"You play politics?"

A simple rope-tug at the corners of her mouth had her grinning again, the subtle shift revealing to him more than her words did, "I play when I need to and it got Ecklie off my back for awhile." Logically, an intensely logical, measured, reasoned response.

He finally got some of it, and felt certain pieces shift into place. It was easier to just give in, sometimes.

His mouth sucked itself in, lips pursing as he wondered if he should actually put voice to his thoughts. Surrendering, "I suppose if you've become so very politic," he gave a quirk of his brow and she volleyed one of her own, "That a dance with your superior would look very, very bad indeed."

Blank face, white porcelain or something very much like it, she attempted to rein in the slack that attempted to invade her jaw. She set it hard, staring him down, waiting for him to blush, look away, take it back.

He too stared, the lights reflecting very minutely in his eyes; fire.

A little swipe of her tongue and a quirk of a cheek, a tiny tilt of her head and she was regarding him very carefully. "Not _that_ bad."

His fingers fell slack on the tablecloth and he slid his hands up and onto the hard surface, leaning in low to gaze at her, "Want to give it a go?"

As far as moves went, it was a brash, bold thing from him. There was nothing to do but accept with a sweaty, open palm. Walking the few steps to the dance floor, she found herself inside her head, hoping to god that she didn't trip, fumble, step on his toes.

It had been eons since she had actually danced with someone and this, _this_ was a decisive moment, possibly the only dance she would remember for the rest of her life. "Do you know _how_ to dance?" she whispered in jest as he moved around so that Sara was standing before him.

Grissom blinked, smiled a shadow of a smile and leaned in to place a hand on her lower back. "Okay..." was her breathy response as one of her hands came to rest on his shoulder, the other wrapped tightly in his.

Something was playing, but neither took the time or the effort to place it. Maybe jazz, maybe not, maybe they were just moving, moving to their own rhythm. "Of course I know how to dance," close enough to be heard, far enough away to remain in neutral territory.

"Of course you do," she whispered to herself, chastising in tone. Of course he could dance. He could do everything _else_ why not dance? Sara wondered for a moment if he could feel the perspiration on her skin, feel it sliding to the surface in response to his proximity.

She wondered how he would react to it.

But Grissom didn't react, simply moved her around the dance floor, nodding his head at some people, delivering a quiet hello to others. That was something that threw her a little, had her laughing quietly to herself; he wasn't trying to hide her, hide the fact that he was holding her close, closer than Warrick was holding Catherine.

Surely, that counted for something, but Sara resigned herself to keeping it simple and not over-thinking. The feelings at play, the emotions at work were far easier enjoyed and understood when words were absent from the mix. Under her fingers, his short ones felt rough, her hand in his felt warm, too warm and lingered somewhere around the vicinity of perfect.

Maybe there was some magic in the moment, something in the air or they had both drank too much (they _hadn't_ drank too much) but when she leaned in closer to him and he brought his lips up to her ear he dared to whisper, "I can't say that there has been another moment in my life in which I've been absolutely certain I want to throw caution to the wind... and..."

Pulling back, severing something in the connection as she did, Sara asked, "And?"

"And all I can think of is how badly I want to kiss you." The hush enveloped his words, made them only audible for her but her gasp, free and unbidden, turned some heads. Grissom ran damage control, "I am _such_ a klutz!" The onlookers turned away, leaving them to filter through the bombshell he had just dropped.

"Very, very bad for my newfound respect for playing things politically..." she drew out and felt the arm that was around her shift so that his fingers could tease over the fabric _just_ above her ass.

"Then," he mumbled, leaning in so that she could almost taste the smile that was dripping from his lips, "This party most certainly needs to be relocated."

One nod of her head and they were meandering off the dance floor, through the doors, down the hall and out the front door. From there it was a quick jaunt around the building to the darkened side lot. Having held her hand the entire way he was able to spin her into his arms very easily.

With one hand trailing over her cheek, the other cradling her hip he smiled gently, easily and pressed the side of his face to hers, sighing. "Saraaaa..."

"Yes."

And his lips were on hers, kissing her for the first time, dry heat invading her cheeks, her face enflaming immediately as she responded. Her hand was fumbling through his hair and he was clutching at her hip and then they were against the wall, necking.

It was sweet, the way he held her firmly and yet softly, kissed her neck, sighed how wonderful she looked, how very much he wanted her, had always wanted her, always, always, always...

Sara laughed and pulled away, stilled his hands and lips and held his wrists at his side. "Then stop wanting." There was a brilliant smile when she told him, "Take."

Grissom shifted, worried his lips, looked back at the building from which they had come. "Did you check-"

"Yeah, I checked my coat," she asserted, "Two-oh-seven."

"Two-oh-seven, okay, what color?"

"Black."

Grissom nodded and stepped away quickly, stepped back and kissed her quickly on the lips. "Black coat, I'll be right back." About to run off again, Grissom stopped, fumbled in his pocket and tossed her his keys. "I'm back there," gesturing frantically with his hands, he back pedaled. "Somewhere, start the car, I'll be right down."

Sara watched him disappear and smiled a little to herself. Spinning the keys around her pointer finger, she spun around and made her way towards his vehicle.

She knew the dress would do the trick.

* * *

_Anyone get me yet? Perhaps the next chapter will make my motives clearer._


	3. Chapter 3

_Muchos love to Lori, straight up and fo' sho'

* * *

_ Sloppy.

The only way his precise science knows how to define what is happening. It is... intensely sloppy and loud, frantic and pressing, and while there's a laugh ready to bubble out of his chest, he can't quite seem to let it go.

Sloppy, in his office; the one place where it shouldn't happen becomes the first place it does happen and for a moment he's blissfully aware of the drawn blinds and the closed door.

What else is there to do but follow her as she swiftly, deftly flips his center of gravity? What is there to do but chase after her in desperate pursuit of more skin, more lips, more her?

If he were a lesser man he might have been nervous that his whole body was wracked with fragile tremors, his hands seeming to jump and spasm as much as cling and stroke. If he were a lesser man he might not be able to handle the bright nova of skin and bone that rested within the cradle of his arms.

If he were a lesser man, he might not have wanted the responsibility of watching her crack and crumble before him.

He is not of the lesser breed so he watches as the fissures form before stooping to pick up the pieces, rebuilding her in that way he's always seen her: brilliant, beautiful, strong, abstract.

He can tell that she wants more by the way she clings to his body, gasps into his mouth, and trails a heel up his calf. He can tell that she needs this moment more than her next breath, so he gives it to her; as dizzy from want of oxygen as he is dizzy from the solace of her lips.

It seems not a first kiss but the thousandth because he knows her body and he knows her pain and her need so he goes right on kissing her as tears begin to roll down her cheeks and sobs overtake her body.

The pain of the day is still heavy, oppressive, cumbersome, and Grissom knows that she is reliving the horror in her head. Her friend entombed, and she-all of them-helpless to the whims of a madman. She is feeling it all, every tiny sliver of emotion she hadn't allowed herself to feel before she is feeling now in his arms.

He is feeling it too, just as he feels her.

Grissom wants it; wants the pain and all that pressure and he finally understands what it's like to love someone. It's torture and longing and wanting to take all the pain away for them that Grissom is just about ready to clear off his desk with the sweep of an arm and lay her down.

But he doesn't.

He is stronger than that and so is she and they both deserve so much more. They deserve the sweetly-slowed moments of love making and the sluggish seconds of afterglow. They deserved quiet spaces and gentle laughter. They deserve light caresses and purposeful touching. After so much, they deserve it all, and while the kiss is all he can give at the moment, it is not all he can do for her wholly.

"Sara-" he gasps, but it is pulled under by her tide as she breathes 'more' against his lips. What more does he have to give except his heart and his body and his soul? So he gives it all to her in the simple twining of tongues, the intense press of lips and palms.

They should stop, they really should, but they don't and it's drawn into the longest first kiss in history. She begins to sweat; he can tell because his hands are in her hair and he's pulling her hard towards him. He's sweating too; it tickles his temples and she touches and trails it over his cheeks as she hums and groans, as she tries to crawl into him.

Grissom leans against the desk and cradles her between his thighs, slowing things down just to take it all in. He catalogues her taste and the strange texture of her tongue. Grissom pauses to allow her scent to sink into his skin and blinks when she does, staring directly into her eyes.

They smile and then they kiss some more. They kiss because Nick's alive and they're alive and being alive means feeling alive and that's what they feel. Well, that's what he feels. He feels fantastic and alive and he just wants to make her feel some small fraction of that perfection.

So maybe that's why he keeps kissing without pause.

That's why she keeps accepting this, his comfort and love. She accepts it because it's all he has to give to her any more, so she takes it and keeps it and reciprocates.

If he were a lesser man... he might not have kissed her.

But he is not a lesser man.

He is her man.

* * *

_You readers... are simply put... truly fantastic. Just needed to get that off my chest. Because... you really are.  
_


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks to le Lauren for faking me out on this and also for the beta. And to Lori and Mel who prolly won't read this, but stay strong. Much love. -punches chest in a "hollah" like manner-_

_----_

I don't quite know what to say to her when she suggests that we get a cup of coffee.

Together.

The offer itself is innocuous; it's a harmless extension, most likely made out of courtesy. And yes as she hangs in my doorway, her face obscured by the light in the hallway, I can't help but believe there are ulterior motives at work. And no, I cannot help but want her to be asking me for an entirely unprofessional reason.

Or reasons; there have to be more than one.

Her hands are in the pockets of her jeans (how in the hell did she get them in there? Those jeans are simply so impossibly tight that-) and she's staring me down like she has it all figured out. I'd be entirely grateful if she did; then I wouldn't have to attempt to figure any of it out myself.

Though her pose is casual and relaxed I know that she can't possibly be at ease. I know this because I know her. I _know_ her.

That... that is why when my glasses slide down the bridge of my nose I choose to remove them instead of pressing them upwards and continuing to work. That is why I pack up my briefcase with a practiced speed and make my way out of the building with her in front of me. I go with her because I realize that just as I know her – her little quirks, the way her emotions surface, the way she likes her coffee and how she likes to sing, eat, dance, live – I want her to know me.

It's not a sudden realization, far from. It's as though it's been creeping up on me for years and has finally deigned to shake me awake.

Yes, this will be the beginning of my awakening.

Things between the two of us have somehow morphed from a simmer to a boil. I've done my part to disguise the fact that, yes, it's affecting me just as it is her (if not more so, I'm simply better at disguising that fact). It's not a dance we perform; it's an elegant form of some unknown martial art. We're spinning, ducking, punching and retreating. And yet we keep missing each other.

We've become very, very adept at missing each other.

There is no logic when it comes to Sara (not for me anyway, sign one that this is more than I want it to be). I make no conscious moves to directly avoid her because I decided long ago that I would pursue nothing that bloomed between us. Therefore, my actions or lack thereof should cancel each other out. I make no move to pursue her because, bottom line, I'm not quite sure how to. Sara... is volatile.

I would say powder keg but that reminds me too much of Eastern Europe during World War II, and I… am getting completely off track. She does this to me sometimes, spins my thoughts into a frenzy that I can't work out. It is… intensely infuriating; I'm not sure how to live without it now.

I'm a smart man, but I'm not a man of common sense. Even when evidence to the contrary presents itself – such as me finding myself knowing that she and I could probably be quite happy for quite a long time – I tend to... ignore it. A study in contradictions am I, Gil Grissom.

To have a woman before you, loving you for years... knowing for all those years that she loves you and ignoring it... that isn't easy. It's hard and unforgivably stupid. It... it's humbling and frightening and wonderful. And it's very hard – for me – to reduce her to such banal clichés of emotions. (Did I… love? Wait… Oh god…) Sara is... unable to be categorized, she's a category in herself... she reduces me to colloquialisms, reduces me to rubble.

Her car is quick in front of me; she switches lanes fluidly and while I'm impressed I'm also stunted by being worried about her well-being. Really, she's traveling far too fast. I'm at a loss... I have absolutely no idea why I feel the way I do anymore. What the hell am I even saying, trying to figure out. I don't... I can't...

And then we're in the parking lot, her tires sending dust up into my line of vision (there is dust everywhere in this damn city, it's rather annoying). Fast, damn she's going fast and I'm following behind just as fast. Is she making me? Is it my fault? Do I care?

No words are spoken as she clambers out of her vehicle and meets me at mine. And no words are spoken as I follow her into the small establishment. She's in the lead, as always. Inside it's dim but chic, clean. Sara glances back and then moves forward, pulling her sunglasses off of her face.

I look around, can't help it; I have to take everything in. There's a group of teenagers (each with a different shade of neon hair) at a booth near the back, books and laptops spread across the table. A gaggle of elderly women inhabits the seats closest to the door, eating pie and chatting over tea. Two truckers sit at the counter, pushing pancakes around easily in a lake of syrup. I can't seem to describe the place to myself, it's indescribable; it's not a normal coffee house, it's not a diner, it's not...

I don't really think about what it is or isn't because she's sliding her long (long, long, _long_... she is so tall...) body into the orange leather booth, pulling one leg up underneath her. For a moment I gaze at the way her graceful fingers are splayed over the Pollock-like formica. She brings method to the madness of the paint beneath the clear shellac. Method to madness...

Sliding in, my hands find the top of the table as well, my sweaty palms pressing flush against the cool material, it feels nice, stills my addled brain.

Clearing her throat she settled herself back into the booth, making immediate eye contact with him. "I... want to try and just... get some things straight between us."

Nowhere to run, I have nowhere to run. I can't even fathom what she's about to say and my immediate thought is to run but she has this way of cornering me, behind a desk or at a scene or... wherever. So there's nothing to do but wait, wait and order our coffee. Well, I get coffee, some hazelnut thing she recommends and she gets a chai concoction I'm not really sure of.

Not that our choice of beverage matters; it doesn't. At all.

I have a feeling that there's not much to be said, that what _needs_ to be said can be spoken in a few, short words.

"Anyway," she sighs and begins shredding a napkin before me, the pieces forming odd crisscrosses on the table. "You know, I mean, I can talk with anyone but you?" Her eyes meet mine and though it's sad, she smiles at me. "I mean, I stutter and can't seem to... keep myself on balance. Kind of like I'm doing now," she bows her head but her eyes meet mine again. "Do you notice when I do that?"

"I do," I admit quietly, perfectly happy with letting her speak her piece before I even begin to formulate an adequate response.

Long fingers swirl in the mess she's made on the table, drawing the flimsy paper around and around and around. "It's because, I mean I've said it before but I wanted to actually get it," she sighs heavily, "In no _uncertain_ terms..." Her head wobbles a little as she attempts to lighten the mood, find some sort of humor in the situation. I couldn't take this more seriously.

Sara's hands fall beneath the table; I think she is clutching at her knees, maybe digging her nails in a little, steeling herself. When she works up the courage to meet my eyes again, I struggle not to turn away. This is taking more courage for her than I thought it did and it's only _polite_ to meet her halfway on this. "I'm attracted to you... but you knew that. I-"

The waitress returns with our beverages and I take a moment to inhale deeply... while she's not looking. Sara adds sugar to her chai, probably as thankful for the momentary distraction as I am. While she's busy trying to unclump the sugar she continues, "I... can't stop it; it's not something I can help and..."

I don't cut her off, she just trails her voice into nothingness and scrunches up her face in disgust at what she's said, as though it came out all wrong. And out of nowhere I speak, these short words that have lingered in my throat for too long, they finally make themselves known. "It hurts to look at you."

Carefully, she places the sugar container back down on the table, brings the mug up to her lips to blow steam off of the surface of it. "What?"

"I need to touch you now," I explain, as though there isn't a waver in my voice, as though my stomach hasn't just decided to perform a floor exercise. "I didn't before, it wasn't a problem before, but it is now." The only way I know how to put it; that's the only way I know how to put it.

Sara just blinks, sips and snakes her left hand across the table to grab my right one. Somehow it's nice to know that she's shaking, just slightly. It's a nice feeling, surprising but undoubtedly nice. Her palms are sweating as well. That puts me at ease, just a little. "Perhaps we should... touch more," she reasons logically, her voice having dropped significantly in volume.

It's sweet, what she says and how she says it and I feel warm all over, like a welcome rush of endorphins has skittered throughout my body.

I say nothing, and neither does she, we just sit in silence, holding hands, drinking our beverages and trying not to look at each other.

After long minutes of comfortable silence (and thank goodness it's comfortable) I squeeze her hand to get her attention. She's in the middle of licking her lips and I feel my lips and groin twitch at the sight. "I'm attracted to you as well."

The knowing smirk that breaks across her face stops my heart. Well... I guess she knew all along then. That's just… I don't even… I guess I wasn't as secretive and sly as I thought I was being.

Who am I kidding, I've never been sly.

"Maybe we should touch more," she repeats and squeezes back.

Dregs of our respective beverages are left between us and still no words are spoken. Reaching for my wallet, I toss down a ten and get out of the booth, not looking behind me to see if she's following. This is immense progress for one day and I don't need to know that she's behind me to know that she's _behind_ me. At the door, I can't help but turn around to catch her looking out the window, a wide grin perking her lips, fingers dancing absently on the rim of her mug.

We're going to be just fine. Just fine, I think and look up at the sky, my hands buried deep in my pockets. My head is spinning and... it's not a bad thing. Taking my eyes from the heavens above me, my line of sight is pulled to the mountains in the distance.

Behind me, the door jingles open and I keep my eyes fixed forward. She walks by me, in front of me, no doubt having seen me. Maybe she's not pressing her luck and maybe I wasn't thinking about pressing mine but I feel rather... giddy. Like everything is filtering into place. Maybe I just need to feel what it's like to grab life and live it for a minute or two.

She's almost to her car when I call out, "Want to touch more… now, right this second?"

Sara still and turns to look at me, still smiling that delightful little smile. Confused, yes, I've succeeded in confusing her, but I don't mind much because I'm making my way over to her, taking her face in my hands (and dear god, I think I've gone insane) and kissing her.

Sara is kissing me back happily, hips sliding salaciously against mine...

She's kissing me and I don't care. Her tongue is sliding over mine and her fingers are tugging at my hair. And I don't care.

Because she's here and I'm here and we're together and that's all that matters...

Isn't it?


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks to Kirsten for the beta… she's, quite simply put, fantastic. _

-----------------

Sterling silver.

Every single piece of jewelry she owned was of little to no value, chosen simply for its grasp on her attention. Small pieces peeking out at her in her peripheral vision, things that had her pausing and back pedaling. A simple knotted cord here, a delicate faux golden chain there. She had thumb rings and chunky bracelets that had caught her eye as she'd passed by a simple vendor's cart.

The light would glint off of it and she'd wonder how the light would look bouncing off of the shiny object if it was around her neck or adorning her finger.

Never impulsive, she thought over each selection she made, oftentimes annoying the vendor with her patience.

They felt like frivolous purchases to her; her work clothing was chosen purely for its functionality, as were her shoes. Accessorizing was her way of subtly expressing herself: a splash of color in a semi-precious stone, a bit of spontaneity in a delightfully eccentric golden pattern.

Even then, when the attraction to the piece was immediate, she reasoned over her purchases. How many times was she really going to wear it? Was it likely to match many of her outfits? Would it be inconspicuous enough to wear to work, out in the field? Was twenty dollars too much to lay down for a simple ring?

Her jewelry box – a small container shaped from rich cherry wood – was laden with inexpensive trinkets; pretty, but inexpensive trinkets. Every morning before shift she would spend a long moment or two sifting through the contents, allowing a long finger to trail against delicate metal and coarse hemp.

That was the only point in the day when she would glance directly into the mirror, checking just briefly to make sure that the hue of the jewelry complimented the shade of her top.

Earlier, when she had been sillier, slightly younger, she'd picked out a dripping necklace or two that plunged towards her cleavage, tempting with its luster. On those particular days before she'd become too fed up with her own life situation she would wear bras that would press her breasts up just a bit further. Lean in, she would lean into him – over his shoulder, around him – just to be close in hopes that he would take the proffered bait and sneak a peak at what she had displayed for him. For _him._

Fully convinced that he wasn't tantalized by revelations of flesh, she retreated in her advances; finding some sliver of solace in simply being able to be close to him. Finding a sliver of solace in silver. Years passed, slow, sluggish morsels of time before her eyes. Sara watched him gray, acquire a few more tiny crevices around his eyes.

Grissom acquired a slight paunch, his steps became slower. The years stole themselves around his frame, each passing day taking its toll, reminding the both of them that death was inevitable, that he was slowly being pulled back towards the earth that had bore him. As she watched him sigh, the minutes ticked away.

She stopped wearing rings.

Sara was left wanting to be the one to take care of him in his old age. He was far from it – old – but that didn't seem to concur with her silent thoughts. His back hunched as though he'd accepted the inevitable. Rather than sit passively by while he passed into an oblivion that held God knew what, Sara decided to act.

Picking up his Roy Rogers commemorative decree, she formulated a plan to work him out of his clothes and prove to him that anyone could live forever, if they chose to believe it. A rough, weathered finger passed over the cool glass covering the faux-aged paper. And as his rough hands snatched the frame back they both imagined the same hands pressing her against a hard wall, the coolness of her bracelet a warning on the skin of his palm.

A tiny glint caught off of her neckwear, winking at him and she swore then that the moment was set in stone. She swore.

Chaos theory. Chaos, the mate of Gaia, creating the Titans, chaos ripped their world apart. Sara was sure her mind had never run quite that fast, quite sure that she'd never been so fixed on anything before. When her eyes had eventually pulled away from the ambulance en route she had found Grissom leaning against a dusty willow tree, basked only by the last of the circulating cruiser lights. "We need to get started processing," she'd claimed weakly, as the blue and red bounced off of the slopes of her necklace to glint on his face.

His head tipped back against the hard bark as he sought out the stars through the branches. The sound of car doors closing and then tearing away barely registered with them. Grissom blinked and then slid around to the other side of the tree. Sara glanced behind her, brought her hand to her throat and then followed him around. "Did you want to..."

A small, sad smile teased itself up onto his lips as his head fell, solemn. "...start... processing?" she finished weakly.

He said nothing, did nothing but breathe and once again attempt to gaze at the heavens around the tangle of sweeping willow branches. "It's getting quiet," he breathed, his hands finding their way into the pockets of his forensics jacket.

With a furrowed brow and a mind clouded by an absence of proper sleep she attempted to formulate an answer, "Yes..." came the wobbly utterance.

"Very... quiet," Grissom whispered.

Sara breathed out as she watched his face fall, watched as his chin tucked into his chest and he seemed to dig into his pockets with his fingernails. Sara stepped a bit closer to him, leaning down in order to hear him better. If the night had progressed in other ways, if

Nick hadn't been entombed, if they hadn't all been faced with their frank mortality then maybe the evening would have held something else for them.

The weather was perfect, crisp but not too cold. The sky was clear, ideal for stargazing. If it had been any other night...

If it had been any other night, the press of his lips to hers would have been welcome but it was... wrong. It lasted seven seconds, his mouth slanted over hers and when he pulled back, Grissom frowned and hung his head and forgot about the stars in the sky. "I'm sorry," came the quiet mutter.

Sara smiled sadly, "No need to be."

Pulling himself away from the tree, Grissom moved to her, fingers going to the pulse point at her throat, pressing over cool silver. "The time will be right at some point..."

Their first kiss was on a battlefield, and the second against her car.

The timeline didn't matter much because after the fourth and fifth and sixth, they forgot to remember the details. When he slid the only piece of jewelry she actually cared about onto her finger she cried and managed to utter a few simple words about a willow tree.


	6. Chapter 6

_Merci beaucoup to Mary and clappies to KE._

* * *

I really wish I'd shaved today.

Because honestly, I don't do it every day simply because no one's going to be touching my legs but me (and I can deal with that, no problem). No one's going to be seeing my legs but me and if I can go for two weeks without having to fumble around muscle and skin with a sharp object, that's awesome.

Also saves me some time; I'm nothing if not intensely methodical.

I just really, really wish I'd chosen to shave today.

See, when Grissom and I eventually had our sit down to discuss the merits of being together versus the whatever of us not being together (and I won't go into that saga, really, it's long and has far too many references to a 'this' that neither of us can actually define) he'd proposed a slow build up of what we once had. A whatever-the-hell-we-are to friends and then hopefully onto something more.

Three awkward dinners and a movie later and we had apparently graduated onto gathering a more intimate venue. Today it just happened to be my home and after the day we had there was no time or energy for a real meal with real talking and real emotions. There was, however, enough thought to order Thai, fall onto my couch and turn on AMC to a horror movie marathon.

Somewhere in between Michael Meyers' first and second victim, his hand wound up on my thigh, rubbing gently. That was nice; that was very nice but I chose to ignore the action; I didn't wanna freak him out. But when he leaned into me and kissed the top of my head, the shiver that was waiting to be unleashed at the bottom of my spine snuck its way up, wracking my whole body on the way.

I settled for leaning my head on his shoulder and continued to watch as more people were mercilessly slaughtered. (Michael, it would seem, is also rather methodical, who knew?) So that was nice, just sorta cuddling with him as we found ourselves being pretty normal, munching intermittently on mediocre Thai.

Awesome... I guess I just didn't expect him to put the moves on so soon (not that I'm complaining! Don't get that impression!)

When he kissed me it was sloppy and off to the side and he tasted vaguely of Pad Thai which was kind of jarring. Of course, that didn't stop me from accepting his graciously-offered tongue and slicking back with a greeting of my own (what can I say, I'm very democratic). His lips were chapped and his beard roughed up my chin but I sucked happily on his lips and tongue before merrily taking up residence at his neck.

You know when people have this distinct... thing... about them? Well, I felt like I was tasting his distinction when I sucked the rough skin of his throat into my mouth. Salty and base and lovely and him and it was then that I knew that we weren't just going to stop at kissing. That... that was a stupid thought to begin with.

And it wasn't because he had his hand up my shirt on my right (what to call it, I mean, I'm being candid here but...) well, you get the picture… he had his hand up my shirt and was doing a whole manner of amazing things with his fingers but it wasn't because of that. And it wasn't because he was sucking on my earlobe and muttering how much he wanted me. I knew we weren't just gonna stop there because the butterflies that tended to rile themselves into a frenzy whenever I was close to him had fallen miraculously dormant.

Things felt incredibly-and this really is for lack of a better word-right and so when he tore off my shirt and suggested that we move the 'party to another location' I just mumbled incoherently and let him lead me off. (And he didn't actually say take the party to another place but some things are better not retold.)

And so there was a lot of groping and relieving of clothes and he continued to kiss me so thoroughly that I wondered if he was doing it just so I wouldn't speak. And I wanted to; there was a ton of stuff I wanted to say. I suppose it's better that I didn't... Anyway!

So kissing and groping and the eventual... coupling (God, I feel like I'm thirteen telling you this) was fantastic. He did things to me that I'm sure must be illegal in certain states. Not like I was an innocent bystander thought; I'm pretty sure I almost snapped his spine in two with the pressure my ankles gave when I may have been a little too overenthusiastic about getting him closer.

Then there were the fireworks (and me getting to see Gil's orgasm face which is actually more comical than alluring, as it turns out) and the lethargy and I just can't stop thinking about it now...

He kissed me sloppily again, like he had for the very first time earlier tonight and cracked a joke about how he was sorry that he'd given me beard burn but he was sure that if I examined his hips that the skin would look much the same.

I just... really wish I had shaved today is all.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you goes out to dreamsofhim for her last minute beta. She pretty much rocks really hard. The end._

* * *

It was the second time she had run from the room, eyes wide. He'd started to say something but she was already gone, leaving a faint trail of vanilla in her wake. He'd looked both ways, checked his breath, brought his shirt up to his nose and sniffed it, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

It was only when she came back, eyeliner slightly smudged, mouth sagging (body more so), head down, that he got a faint hint of what was going on. "Sara... are you... all right?"

"Fine," she said abruptly, grabbing her stomach as soon as she did. "I'm just... I'm fine."

She licked her cracked lips, braced her sweaty palms on the table and gulped down a swallow of air. In that moment, he decided he'd throw caution to the wind and be an asshole (if she so chose to tag him). "You don't look fine."

He received a glare, a harsh one. "Oh, I _don't_?"

And then, well, she vomited on his shoes. Luckily the vomit missed the evidence table and landed 'splat' on the floor.

Grissom was more shocked than appalled; the display of weakness before him was rather uncharacteristic. Something simply had to be wrong. As he arched a brow, it seemed that all of the cards filed right into place. "Honey, what did you have for lunch?"

Her miserable state left her unable to respond to the affectionate title he had given her, "Egg salad," she moaned pathetically, attempting to keep herself upright while leaning against the layout table. "From... down the street, the deh-"

A retching sound had him reaching out for her instead of jumping back. "The deli," she finished, sounding ridiculously tired.

There it was, his hand on her hair, brushing it away from her eyes, smoothing it back on her head, sighing in concern.

"Food poisoning, you won't be eating there any time soon."

Sara swayed back and cast a withering glance up at him, and then at the clock. "I'm really okay, let's just..." her breathing faltered again and she slammed her eyes shut for a second. Upon drawing them open she took a deep breath and finished, "Let's just finish, it won't take that long."

Grissom rolled his eyes and moved forward, putting a hand on her shoulder to straighten her spine and turn her around,.

"You're not fine... why are you so stubborn?"

Sara laughed half-heartedly, "Why are you?"

Shifting around to her side, he put an arm around her waist, drawing her close in order to prop her up. For a slender woman she really was rather cumbersome. "Great minds think alike," he countered dryly as he managed to maneuver them out into the hall. "I suppose."

Sara chuckled a bit and unbeknownst to her, thumped her head on his shoulder. Nick passed them in the hallway, his face immediately etched with concern. Grissom did away with him immediately, mumbling "Take over the chain of custody on that evidence, get it back into the locker. I owe you one," and trotted off with her to the locker room.

They paused in front of her locker and he craned his neck – painfully – to look down at her. "Can you get in there?" She merely grunted and tossed her head on his shoulder. "That," he understood immediately, "would be a no."

With utter care, he set her down on the bench, pausing for a moment to make sure that Sara knew where she was and why she had to sit up. Placing her hands on her knees she closed her eyes and nodded in the affirmative. "Eight-zero-thirty," she muttered and moaned and fell silent.

For a second, Grissom stood ramrod straight, looking down on the perfect line of her part. Drawing his eyes away, he shook the moment from his mind and set upon opening her locker. Slight clicks of the numbers falling into their positions registered in his ears as the locker 'snicked' open and allowed him inside. Pictures greeted him: a golden retriever, Sara (only slightly younger) clutching a snowboard and grinning like a fool. Sara and a man, older, also grinning, both grasping mugs of beer.

Sara's life right there, held by dull magnets and peeling tape. It was oddly sad having her open and bare before him simply because he was deft enough to open a combination lock. Shrugging it off, he grabbed her jacket and turned to her, "Your, uh, your jacket, is there anything else... you need?"

Sara straightened up for a second, "Bag," and then she slumped back down.

Turning abruptly, he grabbed her pocketbook and slung it over his shoulder, leaning in to help her into her coat. Her arms were slack, as was her spine. Like a limp noodle, he wobbled as he helped her to stand up. Grissom had to sling her arm over his shoulder and trod with her through the door to reception.

Just a tad winded, Grissom turned to glance at Judy as he was almost past. "Judy, can you please tell my team that I'm taking Sara Sidle home, that she's sick and I'll return when I'm able?" he didn't wait for a response from her. "Thank you."

He managed to edge her down into his BMW easily – thank God it wasn't the Denali – and rushed around to the driver's side to catch her just as he began to slump into his seat. "Hey," he whispered, placing a hand on her neck, another at her waist. "Hey, let's get you buckled in, I'm going to reach across you... and buckle you in..." he said as he watched her eyes; when she met his gaze, he reached across her to secure the belt in the buckle.

"Okay?" he asked, twisting his neck so that she could see his face. "Okay," he decided when he saw that her eyes were closed.

The drive to her building was short; he couldn't help but glance over at her repeatedly to make sure that she was conscious. A few times he caught her peeking, sneaking a glance out the window only to squeeze her eyes shut in pain. "I feel like shit," she moaned and rolled her forehead against the cool glass.

It was much harder getting her out of the car than getting her into it. Grissom stooped, to the best of his limited ability and heaved her to her feet. Sara groaned and for a moment he wondered if he'd ever be able to carry her over a threshold, if she'd ever allow him. Again, her head rolled against his shoulder and he thought he might be going crazy, just a little crazy.

They managed to make it up one step before she pulled away from him and heaved out a large splash onto the pavement.

As he thought she was finishing, a few more dry heaves came up, surprising the both of them. Sara grabbed her stomach in pain. "Ohhhhhhhhhhh, no more egg salad ever."

Smiling, he grasped her tight around the hips, "Come on, Sara, you have to help me out here. Not as young as I used to be," came his desperate rasp as their bodies were heaved up the next step.

"You're young enough," the words were muffled by a wet cough. "And I get make it the rest of the way, thanks." She attempted to dismiss him with a wave of her hand, the other holding herself up on the cool concrete of the step. His warm hand still steadying on her hip, Sara waited for him to stammer and make his way off into the growing morning.

But he moved her up to the next step and then the next, and before they both knew it, they were pushing their way through her front door and moving her along to the couch. She rolled her eyes and moaned again, "Why did I get a mustard couch? And faux leather... not comfortable I-"

"All right, to bed then," he said as though he'd had an epiphany. Sara pushed her hair to the side and glared up at him.

He didn't bother waiting, just shucked his jacket onto a chair and heaved her back into his arms. And then...

He laughed.

"Laugh at my pain," she choked out a sob, again, pathetically.

"Oh," Grissom placated, "Come on, it's just food poisoning... I know it feels like your insides are turning inside out but I promise you'll feel better once we get some good liquids into you. Do you have orange juice?"

Sara shook her head and then teetered off to the side, slumping against the wall, "V8... s'good?"

They crossed the threshold into her bedroom and he paused, glancing around quickly but convincing himself not to commit anything to memory. Not the color of the walls, the shapes of the knick knacks... the types of different, assorted lingerie scattered across the floor. Definitely not that, not to think about that.

Sara hiccoughed and then slid a hand across the back of her neck, slicking against the sweat there. "Ugh, jusss, disgusting," and there was another sob as he was very nearly dragged across the floor to the bed and murmured for her to sit down.

Grissom stood back as she swayed back and forth on the bed, trying to find her center of gravity. "S'okay, thanksss, you can um, please just lock... door on your way out." Reaching out a foot she tried to kick the wastebasket over to herself but only managed to throw herself into a vicious rocking rhythm.

He stepped forward quickly and grabbed it for her, placing it directly next to the bed. "Do you ummm..."

And then he really, _really_ looked at her. She was sweaty and disheveled, her hair sticking to the sides of her face, droplets of sweat crawling down over her cheeks, slipping into her cleavage. A moment of insanity, something sweet and innocent and touching swept over him, "Do you have... what do you sleep in?"

"Shirt, pants, shorts, tank... top," she whispered, coughed, whispered, coughed.

Grissom thought for a moment. But that was... four things. She couldn't wear all of those things to bed... "Any of... that," she finished and fell back on the bed, eyes slipping closed.

Pants and a shirt, that was fine. He could find pants and a shirt. Moving swiftly to the chest of drawers he quickly yanked open the first one. Underwear. He shut that one abruptly. The next one was more promising: soft tee-shirts and sweatpants and track pants. He grabbed the first two he came across and shut the drawer, pieces of clothing sticking out haphazardly. She could fix them in the morning.

Slipping his hand into hers, he helped her back into a sitting position and watched as she pouted and pushed a few more sweaty strands from her face. "Here, you'll be more comfortable if you put these on."

Sara blinked once, twice, three times and then grunted, fell back against the pillows. Trying to pull her legs up onto the bed, she rolled over but couldn't seem to muster the strength. Grissom squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his fingertips over the closed lids and gritted his teeth.

Miserable. She was miserable. Completely and totally.

After heaving a heavy sigh, he grabbed the clothes and held them out to her. "Sit up, I'll... help... you." Even to him the words sounded pathetic. It seemed like she was an automaton as he glanced up at him and then rolled over, sat up.

Hands on her knees, she watched as he stumbled, stopped, moved forward, stopped, reached out, pulled back and finally grabbed the hem of her shirt. "Okay, so we'll get this up and off, okay?"

Cold, detached scientist took over and his eyes glassed over just a bit, setting himself in the mindset that he needed to be in.

Again came a grunt but she help up her hands limply and he closed his eyes and heaved the shirt, tossing it towards the end of the bed. Grabbing the other shirt quickly, he pulled it over her head and once her head was through the hole, her arms were next. The tag poked out in the front and after a moment wondering if he should fix it, he gave up that thought and began feeling unsteady about her pants.

She couldn't sleep in jeans; she wouldn't sleep properly. "These are too..." he grunted as she wobbled and reached out to grab his shoulder to steady herself.

Sara blinked and coughed, "Kay," and his fingers fumbled around the button and slipped it through the hole.

Wrong, wrong, wrong... but taking care of her, making sure she was safe, fine, in bed was strangely reassuring and left him teetering slightly off kilter. After a deep breath and an equally deep swallow he tugged at her jeans, willing himself not to feel the heat of her skin. With the second tug came her panties, but just a bit, and so he stopped, stood and took a step back. "Sara, you really have to help me out here," he pleaded quietly and after a long moment, she grunted something and scissored her legs until the pants slipped off of her legs.

Her socks would stay put, would have to.

"Good," Grissom amended and pulled a quilt off of the chair in the corner, tossing it over her body easily. "I'll be right back," he promised as he stole away to the kitchen. Making his way to the refrigerator he rooted around inside and sought out the V8, grabbing a bottle and moving away to find a straw. Next, he went to the cabinet and grabbed a small bowl, filling it with water. He found a small towel in one of the drawers and tucked it under his arm.

Juggling it all like a pro he made his way quickly down the hall, back to the bedroom. Sara was on her side, mouth slack, lips chapped, eyes looking as though they were about to sink back into her skull. "Okay," he shuffled up beside her, "Okay, drink this and..."

He set the water bowl down on the bedside table, "Put this on your forehead if you get... hot or... you need..." He stopped talking and held out the juice to her.

Sara's fingers curled around the bottle and she guppied her lips a moment before she got the straw to her lips. "Tha-, thank you."

He stared at her for a second and then nodded. "My... pleasure." She smiled tiredly and then turned over completely and puked the juice she had just drunk into the barrel. "Yeah... the uh, the barrel is here and you're phone is... your phone is..." Grissom looked around frantically for her purse and then remembered that he had tossed it onto the sofa. Fishing it out of her pocketbook, he returned to the bedroom to find her retching again.

It pulled at his heart, "Phone is here," and he placed it on the bedside table. "Anything... anything else?"

Sara frowned, "You tell me, you brought me here."

Grissom frowned and bit his lip, "You... know my number if you need anything else."

And then he was gone; Sara's head fell back against the pillows and she was asleep, fitfully.

* * *

Three hours later, she woke up, dry heaved and finished the last of her juice. The throbbing in her head was still there but her stomach was settled. Sara sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and tested her weight on them. Her stomach roiled a bit and she stood and took a deep breath and padded to the bathroom.

Sara smacked her lips together, feeling the harsh, chapped edges of her lips pull against each other. The sour taste in her mouth nearly made her retch and she reached quickly for her toothbrush, adding a healthy dollop of toothpaste before shoving it in her mouth. With her free hand she turned on the shower and pulled the curtain shut, leaning back against the cool tiles of the wall while her head took a time-out and swam a few laps.

Tossing the brush into the bowl, she stripped down and stepped into the shower, opening her mouth so that the water pelted her tongue. Her hair was next, but the best she could do was pour a dollop of shampoo onto her head and rub it around a bit. The dollop of conditioner made it no farther than just above her ears but she washed it out anyway, not caring much if she worked it through or not.

There was no time for facial cleanser, just run of the mill Irish Spring all over her body and then she shut off the flow of water. Feeling slightly better but still ill, she walked back into her bedroom and sought out a fresh pair of pajamas.

Once that was completed, she went back to sit on her bed and began fingering her cell phone. She didn't want it to be awkward but she did want to thank him; above and beyond and he'd been very sweet, very caring... very unlike himself.

Making up her mind to speak with him while she was still lucid (and tell him that she wouldn't be coming in) she flipped through her contacts list until she came to his number.

Punching the 'send' button, she sat herself back on the bed and waited.

The chirping coming from the direction of her living room startled her and she was up and out of her bedroom in record speed.

There he was, draped uncomfortably in one of her chairs, mouth slack, feet on the coffee table. Sara choked; she had nothing to choke on, but still, she choked.

His phone continued to chirp and after a moment it startled him out of sleep and spurred her to clip her own cell shut.

"Hah-hi," Sara said awkwardly, and bit her lip. "You, uh, you stayed the night."

He blinked at her and then rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, sat up with some difficulty and smoothed the wrinkles out of his pants. "Sorry, I-"

"It's okay," she started, took a step forward and then stopped. "I mean... thanks and I appreciate it, but what about the evi-"

"Nick," he claimed, a bit strained as he stood, hands on his knees and slipped his feet into his shoes. "You're feeling... all right?"

Licking her lips, she swayed from side to side. "Yeah, better, not great, not good enough to come in-"

"That's fine, that's... fine, you have more than ample time for that so..."

"Yeah."

They stood in the middle of her living room, staring at each other in the setting light of the sun. Grissom smiled to himself and then crossed to where she was standing, placed a hand gently behind her head and kissed her gently, lightly on the lips. "Feel better," Grissom sailed across to her door, "Call me if you... just... call me."

Sara rubbed her thumb over the face of her phone and smiled.

"Will do."


	8. Chapter 8

_A BIG merci beaucoup to Brandie, who's a fucking cyclone of awesome. And to Kay for the idea, like three months back, haha._

* * *

She could just barely see her breath; it carried out in front of her face and dissipated in the strangely still air. The atmosphere felt thick, like she was standing amidst unseen caramel or honey; for some reason, her movements were sluggish, planned. It felt odd, walking the way she was, felt almost like floating. Sara spread her fingers out at her side and brought them back in, curling her hand into a tight fist.

Her brow was arched in the way it generally arched when she was confused or intrigued; this time, she was both, and wore the expression with expertise.

Ice rinks had always seemed strange to her; they smelled different than anywhere else she'd ever been, mold and clean spice. They were very dark, but bright at the same time. Looking from white up to steely gray, Sara scissored her feet back and forth, shuffling across the ice to the net situated at the far side of the ice. The kit at her side was heavy, and she attempted to find a balance on the slick ice.

Her sense of uneasiness had swept through her frame when she noticed the one cruiser situated in a designated handicapped spot in front of the rink with no patrolman in site. The lack of activity as well as a lack of other cars had her walking slowly towards the building instead of moving with the long stride of determination that usually carried her. Something wasn't right, wasn't right at her, but her natural curiosity had spurred her towards the clear doors.

Upon entering the rink, the air had enveloped her and carried her down to the arena floor, footfalls echoing as she slid her gloved fingers along the marred wood of the sideboards. Grissom had paged her downtown '911, 411,' and she'd dropped her cucumber sandwich onto the paper plate, tossed on her boots and made her way out the door.

Once at the tattered goal, Sara looked around for signs of his presence. Shuffling slowly to the board behind the net, she craned her neck around but saw nothing. "Grissom?" she called, her low voice resonating against the steel and brick walls.

Feeling for the Glock at her hip, Sara thumbed the strap off of it and swiveled her hips until she was on the other side of the ice, fingers curling around the small door to the penalty box. As she stepped onto the hollow floor she heard a sound behind her and spun, finding herself off balance and falling to the worn wood bench behind her, kit thunking loudly beside her. "Grissom?"

He was smiling, his cheeks tinged slightly red as he moved across the ice, a styrofoam cup in either hand. Sara stood back up and walked onto the ice—too brusquely for the surface—and slipped, falling squarely on her behind with a loud "Oomp!" Cringing, Grissom shifted over to her faster, his breath coming out in tiny little puffs, his nose tinged a delightful rose. "Are you alright?"

He placed both cups down on the cold surface and offered her his hands, palms up.

She grabbed on, wishing she didn't like the feel of the calluses rubbing against her skin so much.

Finding a balance, he helped her slowly to her feet, noticing the pinkened hue of her own cheeks and delighting in the sight. Sara huffed a few times and looked around the empty rink. "Where's the body? Better yet, where's the officer!? This scene's not secure... my God, Ecklie will have a field day with this! I-"

Standing in front of him, brushing slush off of her pants frantically, he couldn't help but smile. Her cheeks were pink from the slender temperature, her lips reddened by her teeth gnawing at them. Sara looked sprightly, a delight for his eyes.

"Sara, it's not a crime scene," he admitted, with a moderate amount of regret in his voice. Stooping to retrieve the two beverages he handed her one as she kicked at her fractured kit. "I did something-"

"What the hell is this, if this isn't a crime... how could you... this is so... I don't even... unprofessional!" she sputtered, taking the cup from him and moving back a foot or two. Attempting to say something else, she shifted her feet back and forth, scrunching her brow in an attempt to gain a grasp of the situation. "I don't..." Huffing again, she pressed her hair out of her face and stared him down. After a moment of silence, she shook the cup and demanded, "What is this?" Her voice was strong but quiet and it struck a chord in him.

Face blank, voice even, Grissom stated, "Hot chocolate," like it was the most commonplace thing in the world for him to have brought her. As thought mocking up a crime scene in order to draw away from the lab was a completely 'okay' thing to do.

Lifting the cup to her lips without allowing her eyes to break contact with his, she sniffed the aroma wafting from the slot; she tried not to smile at the delightful, rich scent. "Why?" she demanded, sniffing again and pulling back to drink; it was difficult to keep the scowl on her face, but she managed. After taking a cautionary sip she fixed him with a slight glare, her tongue working to make sure there was no residue left on her lips.

The movement transfixed him for a moment before he was able to tear his eyes away. This is why he'd made her come to the rink; he couldn't stand the small moments, the little things she did. Everything about her that was supposed to be insignificant, trivial details enthralled him. He wanted to know (nearly needed to know) the cause and effect of everything: why she peeled at her cuticles when nervous, why she drank Vitamin Water but only on the weekends, why she had so many scarves in her locker when she barely wore them anymore. He wanted to know why she laughed, why she cried, why the little sighs she emitted when on the cusp of exhaustion were so beguiling.

Grissom looked down at his own cup and pondered it for a while before he brought it up for a drink. After licking his lips clean of the chocolaty residue, he said in a rather low tone, "This is the place... that I told you... that you're beautiful."

You're. You are. Not you were; he hadn't used it in the past tense and Sara noted that, the words settled into the pit of her stomach to render it topsy-turvy. Grissom thought her beautiful in the present… that was something.

Hiding her uneasiness at Grissom's recounting of past evens with a slow gulp of the far-too-hot beverage, she waited for him to continue. After sighing and shaking his head, he continued, "And I thought to myself that there must have been something about _this_ place, about how it was _here_ that made me admit that to you." Another long pull on his beverage and he quietly continued, "Like, a subconscious trigger was pulled because of something in the air."

Grinding her teeth together, her eyes fell to the lid of her hot chocolate and she flippantly replied, "Very scientific of you."

He shifted before her, squirming in what seemed to be an uncomfortable manner, straightening his collar with one hand, looking past to allow his eyes to settle on the slate of the walls. "I'm sorry," he said, but there was no remorse in his tone, in fact, it sounded quite neutral. It caused her eyes to lift to his and they stood in the middle of a skating rink, staring at each other.

Drumming her slender fingers against the hollow portion of the cup, Sara weighed her options. He'd made it this far on his own and she supposed that if she was to rank the moment in regards to the magnitude of meaning, it would be pretty far up there and was willing to see how far he would go if she threw him yet another bone. Then again, she'd promised herself that the ball was in his court, that it was his move to make, that he had to take the pass and run with it.

"There are things," he began, his fingers tightening on the cardboard of the cup, "That need to be said, and things that I know you need to hear, but first..." Bending at the waist with a bit of effort, he slid the palms of his hands against the fabric of his pants and looked at her a moment before proceeding. "First I want to kiss you."

To her credit, Sara didn't really react. Sure, inside the butterflies had kicked into overtime and she felt like she was going to vomit. Her mouth had gone completely dry and she could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle up to attention. "This... doesn't make sense. This can't just be a, a sudden thing, I mean—"

"It's not; I'll tell you all about it... after I kiss you," he explained, sliding slowly to stand in front of her.

Sara bit her lip and screwed up her face in confusion. "I don't, I mean... this probably, I mean it wouldn't be a good idea. There's, well there's a lot of air to clear."

Grissom nodded, lifting a hand to brush a thumb over the line of her jaw. Unbeknownst to her, her lips parted and Grissom, upon seeing her reaction, smiled calmly. "I need to kiss you, Sara." Her right cheek twitched up in what was attempting to become a smile.

"Well, I think," and then his lips gently slid on top of hers and settled and she let out a little squeak of "HMPH!" as his lips pressed in a little more, opened, and sucked her thin bottom lip between his. Sara's hands screwed up into fists as she tried not to reach out and touch him. She wouldn't make this easy on him... but... she supposed, _one_ kiss couldn't _really_ hurt. Accepting that rational, her hand, the one that wasn't desperately clutching her hot cocoa, opened and moved out to slide under his jacket and press into his side.

"Good," he whispered to her parted lips and shifted his head, kissing her a little harder, a little longer. "Good," he reiterated as he pulled back, allowing one hand to linger on the back of her neck, beneath her warm hair.

Sara licked her lips and blinked a few times in rapid succession and then looked down at the disfigured cardboard; in an attempt of nonchalance she brought the cup up and sipped, her gaze falling to the ice, "So, uh, that was... nice..."

Grissom hummed his agreement and then kissed her again, dragging her body into his with a sweeping grab; her drink dropped to the ice and splattered over their shoes, but Sara was too boneless to care, her thumbs hooking into the sides of his pants as he took full control of the kiss.

When he pulled back, her hair was mussed and her lips were red and his cheeks had flared with even more color than before. "Grissom," she whispered and pressed against his chest to back him off.

Grissom looked at her, her eyes clamped tightly shut, and he took it as a bad sign. "Oh, Sara, I'm…"

"I want pizza," she interrupted, peeling her eyes open. "I want pizza and wine and you explaining everything to me… on my couch."

His hands still in the readjusting of his jacket and he looked up at her with caution, "Pizza and wine…"

Sara nodded, still looking a little dazed, "At my place, okay? And you, you can do all… all of the talking." Bending down, Sara retrieved her kit and stood. "And you'll do all the talking."

He nodded slowly, and sent a small smile her way, "Seems only fair."

And as a testament to his conviction, he reached forth and grabbed her hand, squeezing it in attempt to convey his gratitude-for her.

* * *

_Here's where it gets fun. What's your idea of Grissom and Sara's perfect first kiss? Want to tell me? Any idea that really strikes me, I'll write._


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to Lori for her quick beta. Has it really been THIS long since I updated? Sheesh.

* * *

First kiss ever I took  
Like a page from a romance book  
The sky opened and the earth shook  
Down on copperline...

Copperline, James Taylor

* * *

The season was spring, he was sure, because he thought about rebirth and rain as she slid her lips across his and made it all seem so easy he almost shook. It was a few long moments of her mouth against his before he responded and slid a hand up her hip, rested there, continued on up her arm, to her shoulder and finally into her hair.

And he held on for dear life.

It was as though he could taste the smile that she smiled, sweet maybe, something new, a confection as he smiled back and yielded to her pressure, allowing her to press him gently back into the side of an anonymous car. Sara's length against him and he forgot he was on the clock, but remembered that he wasn't supposed to allow this to happen.

The top level of the garage at the Sahara, perhaps not the ideal locale to claim their 'first kiss', but he was something like lost when she took the lead and threw the last shred of caution to a hurricane-gale wind and erased the line completely. One of her hands was curved against the back of his neck, the other clenching and unclenching at her side, as though she was trying to claim something she couldn't grasp.

It made him entirely too sad, and his eyes slid closed, he couldn't bear to watch her anymore.

His free hand slid against the edge of her jeans, two fingers touching Sara's skin and tingling with the newness of the sensation, greedily lapping it up. He was almost jealous of his hands, their friction ridges that he was envious of because he wanted to feel everything that they felt but with every nerve in his body. The sensation of her, of the Vegas air brimming with electricity and excitement, the memory of an entrapped coworker fresh in his mind and too, too many sleepless nights caused those two fingers to press beneath the denim and curl into her, pulling her closer.

That snapped her from her lazy, quiet fall into him, and he damned himself for existing in that moment.

"Sorry," she breathed against him as she separated a fraction, eyes glittering up at him, his vision of her distorted because she was so close. Cheeks like fresh, pressed blush, lips like the blood in the movies, pupils as big as the moon that the cat jumped over; she wasn't sorry.

The only thing he could think to do really, was to sigh a little and close his eyes and press back the regret that his fifty-year old soul had come accustomed to supplying him with. "It's okay."

Sara allowed herself a demure smile and pulled back, "More than okay, I think." It was a line that should have been coy and sexy but came out shy and reserved and he sighed again, and bit his lip, listened to the sound of the lonesome coaster rolling over their heads. Well, then he kissed her, shifting their momentum and pressing her back into their department issue vehicle, breathing over her lips for a moment before pressing in and claiming.

He watched as her eyes slipped closed, slipping into a dream and pressed both of her hands just below his chin, holding him in harder, still smiling, trying not to grin and break the friction of body against body, mouth against mouth.

There was a jerk in her shoulders, in her hips and she sucked in a breath and he pulled back and looked.

Eyes red, still glittering, but red like her lips and he was scared. "Sara... Why are you crying", the utterance of her name asked without his voice accompanying.

Again, her lips lifted and she shrugged, "I don't know," and she cried harder, hiccoughed a little but grinned and kissed him a little more and he responded easily, this time holding her a bit more gently. The way her lips pulled at him was greedy, desperate; he met her halfway in desperation, giving and taking just as much.

Neither the time nor the place, that was how he would later categorize their first kiss, just before she silenced him by sliding onto his lap and removing his shirt. But in the moment, he didn't think much except to wonder why he was feeling so dizzy and choked up himself.

The rolling wind whisked up the sand and grit from the pavement and skittered across their skin; it scratched her and scratched him and his fingers soothed over her skin but she didn't bother, just clutched his shirt and peered up at him in all seriousness, with rivulets of mascara making their way down her cheeks. "I love you, okay?"

The blue cars screeched overhead, empty and scraped against the metal as he looked up, feeling her gaze boring into him, her thumbs hooking his neck. He shook his head and looked back down at her, swallowing the lump in his throat to croak, "No," but she smiled anyway and as her mouth wavered, her hands slid to his shoulders.

Sara's body slumped against the metal at her back and she watched him as he spoke, "Please, don't."

And it was the only thing to say, at least she thought it was, because the syllables came unbidden, "I have to." Sara said the words like they were the physical manifestation of a shrug.

As she leaned forward and pressed her cheek to his shirt he said "Oh," and that was all.

* * *

Took a fall from a windy height  
I only knew how to hold on tight  
And pray for love enough to last all night... 


End file.
